They Call Me Monster
by O'MalleytheAlleyCat
Summary: Season 5. Sam is attacked by a monster which leaves him in a supernatural coma. Dean has to fight the monster while working on forgiving his brother. Hurt/Comfort.
1. Chapter 1

For Disney fans I encourage you to say the title how Thumper would. It's a macabre humour but for some reason it gets me laughing.

For those unfamiliar with this go look it up and hear it for yourselves. Then say it.

Thank you. Humour the author. In reality the story is sad so... well... Just bear with me please.

Set early Season 5.

* * *

"Damnit Sam!" Dean yelled as soon as they stepped through the motel door.

"What the hell were you thinking! You don't friggin' throw yourself at a ghost!"

Sam set the weapons bag on the table and watched his brother as he stormed across the room to throw down an empty canister of salt.

"It's stupid and it doesn't help! You're just going to get hurt and screw up the rest of the hunt!"

Sam didn't reply, shoulders hunched but eyes holding Dean's gaze in a look of guilt and misery. Dean felt his frustration sky rocket.

"If this is about redeeming yourself or some stupid shit like that then this isn't the way to go!"

Sam flinched at the word 'redeeming' proving Dean's idea that Sam was acting like a suicidal idiot because he felt guilty.

"You don't make up for ending the world by getting yourself killed acting like an idiot! That's not something you can ever make up!"

There was a pause of silence and Sam hung his head, eyes finally being unable to meet Dean's. Dean was worried about Sam but mixed in there was anger and frustration and an anxiety over the fact that the world was ending. It didn't help that Sam was like a kicked dog who was begging its master to love it again. Dean was barely dealing and with another frustrated sigh he headed to the bathroom. He wasn't ready to forgive Sam right now or deal with a Sam begging for forgiveness.

Sam stood there for several minutes unable to move. He was trying so hard to make things right but nothing was working. He knew he could never make it up to Dean, knew that nothing would ever make what he'd done better; but Sam hoped beyond hope that he could make it better just by a little bit. It didn't seem to be working out though. Biting his lip he sat down at the table feeling numb. He needed something to do. Opening the weapons bag he began cleaning them.

Dean spent a long amount of time in the shower, enough to get out because of the cold spray that began coming down forty five minutes in. Heading out he saw Sam at the table, hands working the weapons clean. Sam looked up but Dean looked away, heading over to the bed where he laid down soundlessly and turned off the light. The room was cast into darkness and Sam halted his progress. Dean knew he was being a dick but at the moment he couldn't care. He was still angry and lost feeling and putting his brother in the dark before Sam was ready was satisfying in an immature but safe way.

Sam didn't say anything, didn't argue or bitch at Dean. He just quietly placed the weapon he'd been working on back on the table and headed to his own bed where all he did was toe off his boots and climb under the covers. Sam placed his head on the pillow gingerly, feeling as if his whole soul and body were raw. He hated himself and he knew that his brother could barely stand him right now. It hurt, every moment Dean proved how much he didn't trust or care about him hurt, but Sam had to make things up, had to fix it all. Tears stung at his eyes, and like most nights he buried his head in the pillow and didn't get any sleep.

* * *

When Dean woke up the next morning Sam was already up and on his lap top, eyes red from lack of sleep. Dean opened his mouth to say something but shut it. There wasn't anything he could say.

"I found a hunt."

Dean gritted his teeth at the tone of Sam's voice, it was dead and hollow sounding. He hated hearing his brother sound like that. He didn't answer, instead giving out a grunt and beginning to dress. Sam shifted in the chair obviously stung by his brother's silence.

"It's in Salinas, California. There have been a number of people in comas; according to the article people have been falling asleep and just not waking up. There have been eight people so far, all different age ranges."

Dean finished tugging on his boots and lacing them. "Sounds like our kind of thing."

Sam nodded, shutting his lap top and beginning to grab the bags. The guns which had been abandoned last night were back in the bag and thoroughly cleaned.

"It's not just that. Their bodies are atrophying at an alarming rate."

Dean looked up, brow crooked in confusion.

"Atrophying?"

The guilty look Sam got on his face at using an unfamiliar word made Dean's gut roll unpleasantly; Sam should be ribbing his brother about not knowing something, not acting as if he stabbed his brother in the back.

"Wasting away, their bodies are degenerating. Things like weight loss, bad immune systems; all within days."

Dean nodded.

"Any idea what causes it?"

Sam shrugged "Could be anything, a ghost with a particular way of taking someone out, a monster that poisons people. I was gonna call Bobby and ask him about what he knew before we headed out."

There was a question at the end of that; a request of permission. Dean felt the frustration from the night before well up again, Sam was asking his permission to call Bobby. Things shouldn't be like this, they weren't supposed to be perfect but Sam shouldn't be acting like a cowed dog. However, in some ways it was also satisfying, to know that Sam referred to him on everything. But like everything it felt too little too late. If only Sam had been this way when he'd gotten back from Hell.

"Yeah Sam, call Bobby."

Dean let out a deep breath as Sam nodded his head and began packing away the few items that had been gotten out.

"We can pick up breakfast and then start heading toward Salinas."

Sam turned around and presented a bag filled with some sort of food from some fast food chain. Dean glanced at it and then up at his brother.

"We can pass on breakfast."

Sam's face fell, his shoulders sagging. Dean looked away quickly so he wouldn't have to watch his brother's broken look. It took minutes for them to clean the room out and they were soon stepping over the threshold. Sam deposited the bag in the trash can on the way out, still bent into himself. They climbed into the car and the silence set in. Eight hours later and Dean finally stopped to get food. It was a drive through. Dean didn't ask what Sam wanted, just ordered both of them something cheap and handed Sam's order to him. Sam didn't touch it.

Bobby didn't call back until they had crossed the state line and were just over Donner's pass.

"Bobby?"

Sam paused a moment as Bobby answered.

"Wait, wait. Let me put you on speaker."

Sam pulled the phone away and held it between him and Dean. Bobby's voice sounded out next, voice distorted partially by the phone.

"Where are you two idjits headed?"

"California Bobby."

Dean answered. Sam had his head bowed and was staring out the windshield.

"Good God, you two were just in Idaho yesterday, working a different hunt."

"Yeah, yeah Bobby. Just tell us what you know."

"No need to be a smart ass kid." Bobby let out a huff of breath that could be heard over the phone.

"Anyway, from what Sam told me there isn't much to tell."

Sam stiffened at the words.

"Could be anything. I mean, there's a few things I can say it isn't. But until you two get me more to go on I won't be able to give you much. So far too many things match, info's too vague, but I can keep looking."

"Alright, we've got about four more hours until we get there. We'll start looking into it right away and call when we get something."

"Okay." Bobby paused a moment.

"How you two doing anyway?" It was a cautiously asked question.

"We're fine Bobby." Dean responded, terse and sharp.

There was another pause followed by a soft sigh. Dean tensed, anticipating Bobby probing deeper.

"Alrighty. Take care of yourselves."

"Will do Bobby."

"Bye"

Dean responded quickly "Bye"

Sam shut the phone immediately, tucking it back into his pocket. The conversation seemed to have made him wilt further. The whole car ride had been a mess of silence and tension. Neither said anything and the only stops had involved gassing up. Unfortunately the next four hours were no different.

Salinas was a larger city right next to the California coast and surrounded by fields of produce. They checked into a cheap motel downtown, cursing the whole way as Dean navigated one way streets that all looped around each other.

The motel room was like all the others they had been in. A short Hispanic woman checked them into one of the many open rooms. Dean threw his duffel onto the floor next to his bed while Sam set his on the bed along with the weapons bag. Usually after a drive as long as the one they'd been on, the two would relax a little, take time to settle before diving head first into the case. However the usual didn't exist anymore. Dean stretched for a moment before his eyes settled on Sam's hunched shoulders.

He felt his chest tighten and the feeling of suffocating came to him, he needed to get out and away from Sam.

"I'm going to head to the hospital and check out the patients. You can stay here and start investigating the patients and their backgrounds. Maybe I'll pick up some EMF or at least figure out if there is any connection between them all."

Dean didn't spare a glance back at Sam, headed for the car and a cheap rental suit. Changing he looked over his I.D.s before settling on one. The Salinas Valley Memorial Hospital was like most other hospitals and Dean quickly enough found the doctor placed over the eight cases. Doctor David Jimenez was middle aged and balding, kind brown eyes set on a slightly rounded face with tan skin.

"I don't know why they think the cases are all related, I've checked over each patient and nothing about their symptoms indicate something which is contagious."

Dean frowned. "But all of them are in comas and all of their bodies are atrophying."

Dean rolled his tongue in his mouth at using the word Sam had thrown out earlier. The doctor nodded, an annoyed look coming onto his face.

"Yes, but not contagious." Doctor Jimenez gained a disapproving look. "Not something the CDC should be sending someone to look after."

Dean smiled tightly. "I'm sure, but I still need to look into each of the patients. If you wouldn't mind showing them to me."

The doctor nodded tersely and began walking. Dean followed, eyes roving around the hospital floor for signs of anything supernatural. The EMF reader was in his pocket staying quiet.

"So, are any of the patients awake?" he asked as they walked along.

"The coma is the only synonymous condition of all the patients and even then for some of them it isn't even necessarily a coma."

They arrived at the first room. The doctor opened the door and stepped in where two beds were set up containing two men. Dean walked in after Doctor Jimenez.

"These are the first two who were brought in about three weeks ago."

Both were pale and unbearably thin. However one looked worse than the other; sallow cheeks highlighted with bright red splotches of fever and form twitching in illness. Dean focused on that person, stepping closer to their bed.

"So he was the first?"

The doctor shook his head "No. He came in three days after Mr. Ballesteros here."

Dean frowned, glancing between the two. The one was obviously sicker, usually with Supernatural sicknesses there was a timeline that was followed.

"Alright. Would I be able to see the others?"

Doctor Jimenez lead him out to the three other rooms where the situation was similar. The woman brought in four days ago looked worse than the man brought in three weeks ago but there was another who looked worse than the woman and had been brought in earlier than her. There wasn't any pattern in who was sicker. The EMF also was a bust, nothing was remotely ghostly.

Dean was left baffled at the facts. None of the victims had been in the same place when they had suddenly collapsed. One was at work while another had been at a bar. Sighing he gave up for the moment, conceding defeat and heading back to the motel. Hopefully Sam would've made some kind of connection between all the victims. Dean stopped at the car, being in the motel with Sam was the last place he wanted to be. He paused a moment, thinking over what to do while he absent-mindedly tugged at the scratching collar of the white starch button up.

He needed to change and take a shower after being in that hospital. Mind made up, he climbed into the Impala.

* * *

Sam was asleep on the bed when Dean got back, form strung out lopsidedly. Dean didn't say anything, barely sparing a glance at his brother as anger bubbled up at the fact that Sam had tapped out. He stripped out of the confining suit jacket, tossing it haphazardly onto the bed and stomped into the bathroom where he proceeded to strip and shower. Ten minutes later and he came out towel drying his hair. The anger had taken the time to direct itself and Dean was now noisily thumping around.

"Sam, get your ass out of bed, we need to work this case."

His brother didn't respond and Dean sent a glare at where his brother was sprawled. He knew he'd made enough noise to wake up his brother but Sam was refusing to acknowledge him. Dean stepped closer, looking more keenly at his brother. He felt unease well up as he realized something was off. The way his brother was placed on the mattress; back to him with arms and legs strangely crooked. Sam never slept that way, ever. When he'd been younger he would curl up in a ball for comfort when Dean wasn't with him; he did that now too. When Sam had gotten older he'd always slept on his back with his arms at his side.

Dean stepped closer and found that his premonition was right. Blood trickling down Sam's neck had Dean rushing to his brother's side. Thankfully it was just a strange bite that had bled, nothing serious. However his brother was unconscious, breaths off beat and fluttering while his cheeks were bright with fever. Dean placed a hand on Sam's forehead and confirmed it; Sam was burning up.

Dean shook his brother's shoulder's lightly to get him to wake up but nothing happened except that Sam's head lolled back. Dean felt panic rise in him and he shook his brother harder. The response was the same and Sam's eyes stayed closed. Setting his brother back down on the bed, Dean stepped back. Sam looked so strange, limbs grotesquely bent from their usual way of resting. Dean could see now that Sam had fallen unconscious from whatever had attacked him; body falling into an oblique position.

Snapping out his phone he dialed a number. The phone rang a few moments before it was answered.

"Bobby, it's Sam."


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

"affection seemed to have died under the bruise that had fallen on its keenest nerves"

-George Elliot "Silas Marner"

* * *

"Bobby, it's Sam."

Dean gazed at his brother worriedly as Bobby answered.

"I don't know. We don't even know what we're hunting."

Dean grit his teeth at Bobby's response.

"No! It definitely wasn't something else. I just saw the patients, Sam looks just like them." except worse, Dean thought as he took in his brother's now sweaty forehead.

"I was gone for maybe two hours."

"I don't know. He's unconscious, got a fever, everything just like the victims."

Dean frowned, looking at his brother more closely.

"And a bite mark, a small one."

He walked back over to his little brother.

"Yeah, I can send you a picture."

"Yeah, thanks. Will do. Bye."

Dean hung up, kneeling next to the bed. He took a picture of the bite mark and proceeded to send it to Bobby. Shutting the phone, he took in the sight of his little brother. The fever seemed to have gotten worse in the last few minutes, and Sam was now tossing and turning on the bed, appendages jerking about. A small moan was torn from Sam's lips and he weakly muttered "no" under his breath.

Dean took in a deep breath, feeling overwhelmed. Things between him and Sam at the moment weren't at their best which made him hesitant about what to do. He looked at his brother's sick features and another moan sounded out, followed by what Dean could only call a whimper.

If this was a supernatural illness, there wasn't really anything Dean could do, right? Dean stared at his brother, feeling lost. His brother looked like the Sam he had left in that room with Lilith, the day he'd been dragged to Hell. Sam hadn't looked like this Sam for a long time. It made his heart constrict painfully and his head turn away from his suffering brother. He couldn't acknowledge that this was his Sam, not yet, because, if he did, that meant acknowledging that his little brother had literally ended the world.

Dean heard another small cry. Gritting his teeth, he glanced quickly at Sam before making a decision.

He headed over to where he had left his jacket and shoes. Pulling them on, he decided that the best thing he could do was hunt the monster down. With a guilty conscience, he left Sam thrashing on the bed in the throes of the supernatural sickness.

* * *

Dean headed to the house of the first victim. That had been where the man had collapsed. The house was more of a rundown apartment, overfilled with cars and in a part of town that was plagued by neglect. Dean dodged some kids on scooters and passed a garage where Banda music was playing from a radio while someone worked on their car. Stepping up to the door, Dean rapped on it. A few moments later a woman answered the door.

"Hi, I'm Agent Fleeman. I wanted to ask a few questions about Adriel Ruelas."

"Of course, come in," she replied, smiling weakly.

Dean stepped into the home, where the woman led him to a couch.

"I'm his wife, Esmeralda."

Dean smiled curtly and nodded. "Can you tell me what your husband was like before he collapsed?"

Esmeralda shook her head. "No, Adriel came home from work like usual. He was in the bedroom when I heard a thump. I didn't think anything of it. It wasn't until our daughter Lupita went in to talk to him that we realized something was wrong."

"Did he have a bite on him anywhere?"

Esmeralda frowned. "He did. On his hand, he had a bite on his hand. I assumed it was from one of his friends' dogs or something; it didn't look serious."

Dean nodded, filing away that tidbit for later.

"Was his behavior different at all before he collapsed? Did he act strange, or was he worried about something?"

Esmeralda immediately shook her head, but stopped suddenly. "Actually, he'd been worried about his AA meeting. Before we met, Adriel had been an alcoholic. We never talked about it, because when we met he was clean. But he was always terrified that he would have a relapse."

Dean was about to say something else when his phone rang. With an apologetic nod he stood up and walked several feet away before answering.

"You got anything, Bobby?"

Dean glanced over at Esmeralda who had started folding laundry and adding it to a stack that she must have been working on when Dean had knocked.

"How's Sam? I don't know, I left him to work on the case. I figured that if we gank the monster, we'll gank the illness." Dean didn't want to admit that he hadn't wanted to be near his brother.

Dean looked again at Esmeralda to see if she had heard what he'd said. She hadn't.

"Yes, I left him by himself."

"God, Bobby—yes, I'll go back. Just so you know, one of the other victims also had a bite mark."

Dean waited for Bobby to finish ranting before he snapped his phone shut. Walking back over to Mrs. Ruelas, he smiled.

"Thank you so much for your time, Mrs. Ruelas."

She smiled and showed him to the door. Before he stepped away though, she spoke.

"Agent Fleeman?"

Dean turned around, polite smile in place.

"Yes, Mrs. Ruelas?"

A strained look came over her face and she shifted.

"My husband, Adriel. He'll be alright?"

Dean always found these kind of questions difficult. How could he promise someone else's safety when he couldn't even take care of his own brother? He smiled tensely, stress lines forming in the upturn of his lips.

"We don't have much," she said with a small wave of her hand about the apartment,

"but we have each other. Adriel isn't a perfect man, no person is, but he loves us. And that's enough, isn't it?"

Dean thought about what she had said, that love was enough. It seemed cheesy, but looking around at the poor apartments and the weathered, but welcoming home of the woman before him, he felt a ring of truth to her words. Feeling emotion prickle in him, Dean just nodded, eyes cast down.

"We'll keep doing the best we can."

Her face fell a little but she still smiled kindly at him and nodded her head. "Thank you."

Dean nodded again and the door shut quietly. He hadn't deserved that "thank you."

* * *

Dean stepped through the motel room door to find Sam no longer on the bed. His heart began to thump as he took in the rumpled sheets and empty bed. Rushing over, he saw Sam on the floor, body still compared to how it had been when Dean had left him. Kneeling next to his brother's form, he took in the puddle of vomit that Sam was half-lying in and, even more disturbingly, the sight of blood spreading over his brother's head.

Dean turned his brother over and placed a hand against his forehead. The fever was still raging, and Sam seemed different– a bad different. Looking closely at his brother, Dean realized what the difference was. Sam had lost weight, muscle mass. That was impossible though; it took more than a day of being sick to lose weight, more than a week to lose as much as Sam had. Now, his brother looked less like a body builder and more like an average guy.

What to do. Dean grimaced at the soiled shirt and began tugging it off of his brother's limp form. Sam didn't mumble in protest, didn't even stir. Dean wished that his brother would be back to the tossing and turning mess he'd left, not the near-zombie he was now. Once the shirt was off, Dean awkwardly man-handled his brother back onto the bed and began to inspect the head wound. It was a small cut alongside a nasty bruise. He glanced at the corner of the side table and realized that Sam must have hurt his head falling off of the bed in his illness-induced shakes.

Guilt crept up on Dean, a silent stone in his gut. If he'd been there, stayed with Sam, his brother wouldn't have gotten hurt. As soon as the guilt blossomed, Dean shoved it down. He needed to solve the case first, people's lives depended on it. It wasn't like Sam had been hurt severely. Dean just needed to make sure Sam was settled better.

Dean wiped Sam's head off, clearing the blood away, and then quickly slapped on a bandage. He forewent putting Sam in another shirt and haphazardly tucked his brother into the blankets so if Sam thrashed around again, he wouldn't fall off. Dean grabbed the laptop and settled at the motel desk, mind setting itself back to the task of solving the case.

The only thing that he'd learned from the victim's wife was that the first victim had had the same bite as Sam. Dean would bet that if he checked the other coma patients he would find similar bites. But a bite mark didn't mean much. It told Dean little about the monster, and definitely didn't tell him how he could kill it or cure the sickness. Dean looked back at his brother and felt worry niggle at him. He pushed it aside; emotions had never helped much in the way of solving a case.

Dean needed to do some more legwork and see if he could find any other connections between the victims. That, or sit on his ass watching Sam while he waited for Bobby to get back to him.

Dean let out a heavy sigh and rubbed his hands anxiously on his pants. Getting up, he quickly changed back into the suit. He was going to hit up the hospital again, see if he could question more people.

* * *

"Can you tell me what your dad was like before he collapsed?"

Dean had headed to the hospital and gone to the victims' rooms. He checked all of the victims and wasn't surprised to find a bite mark on all of them in various places. He had been lucky enough to find the young woman in front of him visiting one of the patients, her father.

The young woman in front of him wasn't like the usual, perfectly-built women he met in most of his cases. She was overweight, with a small nose and eyes that were too close together. Ugly glasses that were too big for her face clung to the end of her nose, and she was clad in dumpy clothing that only accentuated her mussy hair.

"Umm...I don't... he was like normal, I guess."

She shrugged, eyes cast to the side nervously.

"Are you sure? Was anything different about him, anything at all?"

She lifted her shoulders again, fingers twined in the fabric of her jacket.

"He was upset a little."

"Upset?"

She shrugged again, the movement obviously a nervous habit.

"He'd met one of his old friends, the ones he had back when he was a teenager. He used to be in the local gang. He got out before he met my mom but he was always terrified that his past would come back to get him. Meeting his friend scared him."

The girl was in her early twenties and worked at the local La Princesa. Dean nodded his response and studied her. She was obviously uncomfortable around him and he realized that what he'd gotten was probably the best he was going to get out of her. But something about what she had said struck him as important.

He had done research on some of the other victims. One of them had been a teenage boy, one whose father had just gotten out of jail. The father had been in jail for domestic abuse and the boy had been the one to report his father. Dean had a feeling that the boy had probably been terrified of his father getting out. So far, all the victims had something they were afraid of. Thinking of Sam, it made sense. The end of the world seemed like a good enough thing to be afraid of. But something about that felt wrong; Sam wasn't one to scare easily and, if anything, Sam was worried over the apocalypse, not afraid.

This seemed like an important clue, a creature that was involved with fear in some way. Dean thanked the girl for her time and got up, heading out of the hospital and back to the motel room.

Dean pulled out his phone and dialed Bobby.

"Hey, Bobby, it's Dean. I got more intel on the thing we're dealing with–"

"Yes, Bobby, I left Sam in the room. He's getting worse."

"Well, the case isn't going to get solved without me going out and working."

"He got worse."

"What do you mean 'balls'?! Do you know what this is?"

"Well, that's reassuring. I have more information about the creature. At least, I think I have more information. All the victims so far had a major fear that had been brought up when they were attacked or collapsed or whatever."

"Yes, that's all I have."

"I can't do anything for Sam while he's out with this sickness. Until we know what the monster is we can't treat it."

"I am taking this seriously."

"Of course I care about Sam, I just–"

"Whatever Bobby, I'm not doing this shit right now."

Dean snapped the phone shut, cutting off the sound of Bobby's voice still yelling through the receiver. He pulled up in front of the motel room, nerves on end from the conversation with Bobby. Bobby seemed to think that he needed to have a heart-to-heart with Sam, that "they hadn't been right" recently. It was a bunch of crap, since he and Sam were fine. As soon as he thought that, his stomach sunk. It was so obvious he was lying to himself. Letting out a deep sigh, Dean climbed out of the Impala. The world was ending– it was as simple as that. They didn't have time to worry about their emotions or whether everything was "alright" between them. All that mattered was stopping the world from (literally) ending.

Dean entered the motel room, relieved that, this time, Sam was on the bed like he was supposed to be. He shucked off his jacket again and walked over to his brother. The sight of him made Dean stop in his tracks. Sam looked unbelievably worse. His face was thinned and gaunt, skin sallow and clammy. Pulling the blankets back Dean was shocked to see that his brother's entire body was in a similar state. Drawn and thin, so unlike Sam's body had been just an hour ago. Panic finally started to settle in Dean, because whatever the monster was doing, it was killing his brother faster than any of the other patients


	3. Chapter 3

They Call Me Monster: Chapter 3

* * *

"'After all, one does not die of it.' 'Die of what?' I asked swiftly. 'Of being afraid.'"

-Joseph Conrad, "Lord Jim"

* * *

With Sam in such critical condition, Dean had no idea what to do. His brother looked like a skeleton—dead and gaunt. He knew he had just been a major ass to Bobby, but fear for his brother's condition had him yanking out his phone and speed-dialing the old hunter despite himself. Hovering over the bed, Dean waited with bated breath as the phone dialed, then rang several times before Bobby finally answered.

"Bobby, Sam's worse. A lot worse. Tell me you got something."

Dean placed shaking fingers against his brother's carotid artery. The faint, erratic thrum that beat out a faint rhythm in Sam's neck provided a reassuring contrast to his otherwise dead appearance. Upon feeling it, Dean let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. But despite the relief of knowing his brother was alive, Dean was worried. Sam was fading away, his body rapidly deteriorating. At this rate, he didn't think Sam would make it through the night.

"I don't care if I just called you minutes ago, I need something."

"Bobby! Sam is dying!"

Dean looked down at his brother, the realization that his brother had been slowly slipping away from him sinking in. He may have been pissed as Hell at Sam, but he didn't want him dead. He could never want Sam dead. Maybe he had wanted Sam to suffer, had wanted him to know and feel how much he had hurt Dean, but not in any permanent way.

"Anything Bobby, I'll take anything."

There was pause on the other line followed by the sound of papers shuffling and a chair scraping against the floor. Dean settled on the bed so he could better hear Sam's soft breaths. He pressed a hand against his brother's chest, relishing in the rise and fall that meant he was still alive.

Dean heard another shuffle, then a soft sigh before Bobby spoke again.

"I don't care if it might not be right! If it is this thing, it could mean the difference between life and death for Sam."

"Cauchemar? I've never heard of that."

"Yeah, Bobby, I'll let you talk."

Dean paled as Bobby described the cauchemar to him. Apparently, a cauchemar was a small creature that looked like a gargoyle, fed on fear, and originated in France. Before this debacle, the creature had never been seen outside of Europe.

"Bobby, please get on with it. I don't care if the thing wears tutus, how do you kill it?"

Bobby had barely answered when Dean interrupted.

"That's great, Bobby. Thanks."

He hung up, not caring what else Bobby had to say about the creature. All that mattered was that you could kill it any way you liked. (Thankfully, the thing didn't have supernatural qualities that made it a pain to kill.) Simple "it bleeds it dies" kind of thing. All Dean had to do was wait until it came back to feed on his little brother. The thought caused the guilt that he'd been pushing down since Sam had fallen unconscious to rear its ugly head. Apparently, a cauchemar could only feed if the victim was alone, or, as in the case of the hospital, if there was no apparent threat. Every time Dean had left Sam, he had been leaving his little brother wide open to attack.

Sam looked like death warmed over because of Dean. Dean stood and walked away from his brother's still form. Things between Sam and him at the moment may have been rough at best (it was difficult to forgive your brother for starting the apocalypse, after all) but, in the end, that wasn't what had made Dean so angry. In some ways, he blamed the angels and demons, even himself more for the apocalypse. Sam had been used and manipulated and Dean had also made mistakes that had kick-started the end of the world.

No, when it came down to it, what had made Dean turn away from Sam was remembering his brother's strong hands wrapped around his neck, his brother's soft hazel eyes turning a venomous black. He couldn't forget putting his heart and soul into that voicemail just to have his brother ignore it. The worst of it all was that Dean had done his best, and his best had amounted to nothing. The apocalypse was his fault, the fact that Sam was a mere shell of himself was his fault. He wondered idly, sometimes, if it would have been better to have let Sam stay dead. (This thought was always followed by a sudden urge to puke.) As Zachariah had so neatly put it: they were "psychotically, irrationally and erotically codependent" on each other. Dean couldn't live with his brother dead.

Glancing back at Sam's body, Dean shook his head and ran a trembling hand through his hair. He needed to get ready for the cauchemar's arrival. According to Bobby, it wasn't much bigger than a large cat and not terribly vicious. It was also pretty weak compared to most of the monsters they hunted. So Dean just needed to lure it into the room, then trap and kill it.

Dean set about plugging up all the entrances to the room except one. The window was left open-the only way in and out. Dean set the guns to the side— better not to attract unwanted attention (like that of the police) and instead took out a knife. Bobby hadn't mentioned any weaknesses, aside from what could kill most things. Then again, he hadn't exactly let Bobby finish. He probably should've let Bobby finish.

Dean settled down near the window to wait with knife in hand. After a little over an hour, he started to get bored; the creature hadn't shown up and Dean was worried that it might not. Bobby had said that the thing wouldn't feed if a threat was present, but it might still come. Dean twisted in the chair he had been sitting in and looked over at Sam for the umpteenth time. Sam was as still as ever.

A small scratching noise had Dean tensing up, eyes alert and at the window while he brought the knife up. He'd positioned himself by the window in such a way that whatever came in wouldn't see him right away. Dean wasn't sure exactly what he was dealing with, but he wanted to be as prepared as possible. Silently, Dean reached for a canister of salt. (He hadn't thought to ask Bobby if cauchemars were susceptible to it, but he decided it was always better to be safe than sorry.)

The scratching noise got louder and a small scaly snout appeared at the windowsill. Dean held his breath as an ugly gargoyle looking thing began to raise its head into full view. Red empty eyes blinked languidly, searching the room until they fell on Sam. The thing seemed to coil up at finding its prey and the relatively small monster began crawling its way through the window. If Sam had been in Dean's place he probably would've been freaking out at seeing a new—to them at least— creature and would've immediately begun mentally cataloging it so he could mark down its features in a journal. It had leathery wings that flexed passively, as a cat's tail might twitch about without thought, and a lean body made up of crooked shapes rather than sleek lines. It had a grotesque appearance, all paw-like hands and sinister movements.

It finally cleared the window sill and began its descent down the wall, gripping it tightly with long thin claws before springing lightly to the floor with a small thump. The whole time, its solid red eyes were fixated on Sam.

Dean paused, waiting for it to get far enough into the room that he wouldn't have to worry about it escaping. The thing took several slow movements towards Sam before Dean made any moves of his own. As soon as it was halfway across the carpet he sprung up and slid the window shut. The noise made it turn its terrifying gaze on Dean. He flinched, body paralyzed by the stare of the cauchemar. Fear overwhelmed him like nothing he had ever experienced. It began advancing on him and Dean struggled to make his body move. Dean was beginning to regret not having asked Bobby more about how the cauchemar entrapped its victims.

It came closer and Dean fought for control of his body. There was a tense moment, in which he toed the line of control, and then Dean was striking out, the knife moving with lethal precision. The creature seemed surprised and it let out an undignified squawk, wings tumbling about it as it rushed to get away from Dean. The knife grazed it before the thing was flying to the corner of the room. Dean didn't hesitate as he pulled out a small throwing knife, took aim, then threw it. It struck the cauchemar's wing, pinning the creature to the wall.

Dean quickly walked over to the screeching monster. Taking his other knife up again, he made quick work of it and the unbearable screeches died out immediately. Dean paused a moment, staring down at the ugly thing. In death, it looked pathetic. But, really— the thing had seemed pathetic most of the time. Compared to other monsters he had fought it was a wonder the thing had survived as long as it had. But then he thought back to when he'd looked it in the eyes and been frozen. Maybe not too much of a wonder. He spared it one last glance before heading over to the bed where Sam was laid out.

"Sam?"

Now that the cauchemar was dead, Sam should be better—relatively, at least— and Dean wouldn't need to worry anymore or be too close to his brother.

Sam didn't respond and Dean took another step closer to the bed. Sam had better wake up already because Dean was not going to go over there and molly coddle his brother into consciousness.

"Sam, wake up already."

There was no response. Dean let out a short sigh and went up to the bed. Sam appeared exactly as he had before the cauchemar had died. Knitting his brows in worry, Dean wondered if maybe it took a while for whatever the cauchemar did to wear off. An unpleasant feeling rolled in his gut, instinct telling him that something was still off.

A sharp ringing tore Dean from his musings, and he pulled his phone from his pocket. It was Bobby. Dean flipped the phone open and pressed it to his ear.

"Hey, Bobby."

There was an immediate retort that was both loud and explicit. Dean grimaced but knew he deserved it.

"It's dead, Bobby, so you can stop yelling at me."

Dean frowned as Bobby calmed a little and began talking.

"What are you saying?"

The frown deepened.

"Yeah, he's still asleep."

Bobby's next words had Dean's jaw tightening.

"Well, shit."

"I'm sorry, Bobby, I should've let you finish earlier. What do I do now, though?"

Dean was now looking at Sam, worry shining through. Apparently killing a cauchemar did nothing for the victims. The poison it gave them that constructed their greatest fears went on until they died. Sam would stay in his coma facing his worst fears until he died of them, he and every other victim. Bobby was explaining that it wasn't hopeless, there was a way to wake a victim. It was tricky though, and could be fatal if not done right. One could enter a victim's mind, but in doing so they gave up their life: if the victim didn't wake up, neither did they. The only way to wake the victim was to help them face their fears, either conquer them, accept them, or alleviate them.

Dean looked in despair at Sam. With the life the two of them led, Sam's fears were bound to be pretty bad. How was Dean supposed to go inside his brother's head and stop the apocalypse when he couldn't even do it out in the real world?

"So, how do I enter Sam's mind? Do we need African dream root or something?"

The answer to that had Dean thanking God— if African dream root was involved there was probably no way he was going to manage to get a hold of it. Instead, the process was a lot simpler. It involved a bit of blood from both parties, some kind of chant, and a root to help induce spiritual something or other. Dean didn't need to really understand it, though. He just needed to know how to do it. Dean grabbed a pen and paper and began jotting down notes on the ritual to enter Sam's head.

"Bobby, I owe ya—"

Dean was cut off by a quick dismissal. He smiled— Bobby always managed to come through for them.

"Thanks, Bobby."

Hanging up with manners for the first time, Dean stuck his phone back in his pocket. He looked down at the paper with all the information needed to enter Sam's head and frowned in worry. Then, he took a deep breath and went to get a bowl and a knife.

* * *

The cauchemar was inspired by Eugene Thivier's Le Cauchemar. The statue is pretty neat-looking. Next chapter will be Dean helping Sam face his first fear, which is so not what Dean had thought it would be.

Thanks to my awesome Beta _seitanspawn_! They are the reason you see a version of this which is free of the writer's many errors. Give them a nice round of applause and some figurative cookies!


	4. Chapter 4

They Call Me Monster: Chapter 4

* * *

"A man is the sum of his misfortunes. One day you'd think misfortune would get tired but then time is your misfortune"

-Faulkner, 'The Sound and the Fury'

* * *

Dean cut a line in his palm, hand held over a bowl to collect his blood. The spell, ritual, whatever you wanted to call it, called for his blood and Sam's blood to be mixed. There was some incantation in old french/Occitan language. Apparently cauchemars were an old creature. Bringing the bowl over to Sam along with the knife, Dean thought about what Bobby had said. For each time the cauchemar had fed there was a fear that Dean would have to help Sam face. The cauchemar had fed three times so Dean was going to have to face Sam's three worst fears.

Dean looked down at his brother's closed eyes and clammy features, wondering about who his little brother was. It was hard to see the features so vulnerable and drawn up like the past. Dean didn't want to face who Sam was now, he never had really. He had never wanted to face his brother's feelings about leaving, about normal. He hadn't wanted to face his brother as they had struggled through their fathers death. He hadn't been willing to face the truth about how his death would affect his brother and worse he had not been able to face Sam as he had made his slippery way down to drinking demon blood and starting the apocalypse. Their issues between each other were far from new, before this Dean had just been able to ignore them. It was hard to do that now that the apocalypse was looming at them because of a bad relationship between the two.

Dean took his brother's limp hand and held it over the bowl, he made a similar cut to the one he had on his hand and let the blood drip down to collect with his own. After enough was in the bowl he set Sam's hand back on the bed and dropped in an herb that he'd already forgotten the name of. Gripping his brother's hand with his own he looked down at the piece of paper and began speaking out the words written. He tripped a bit over the unfamiliar language but was able to complete it. Nothing happened and Dean frowned down at the paper wondering if he'd said it wrong.

He blinked and when he opened his eyes again everything was gone. He was standing in the motel room, except everything was different. In the middle of the room sat Sam. His brother had been tied to a chair, legs and arms tightly held in place by a thick rope. Dean's eyes widened as he took in the battered body of his brother. He knew torture when he saw it. Whoever had working his brother over had been at it at a long time and knew what they were doing.

Dean was paralyzed as he stood watching Sam take in short shuddering breaths, chin resting on his chest and hair obscuring his face. There was something eerily familiar about the torture, something which left a disquieting knot in his stomach.

"Sam?"

His brother flinched at the cautiously intoned word, body seeming to curl closer to itself. Dean was confused, torture was something they were both used to-at least on some basic level-it wasn't something they feared other than in a latent and rudimentary way. It didn't sit right with Dean that Sam's greatest fear was being tortured, it didn't seem correct. Albeit he could tell that the torture was of the most efficient and excruciating kind. But something else told Dean that this wasn't all, that there was something more than just torture which made this scene terrifying for Sam.

The rattle of the door had Dean turning his head. Who walked through the door had Dean completely surprised. It was himself, flecked in blood and a knife in hand. With sickening realization, Dean understood why it had seemed so familiar. His time in hell as a student to Alistair had taught him the fine points in torture, no living person could deal out this kind of torture. No one, that is, except Dean. To top it all off, Dean thought, was the fact that Dean knew that he knew his brother better than any other person. He would know exactly how to torture Sam in the worst ways.

The other Dean didn't acknowledge Dean, instead smiling predatorily as he approached Sam.

"Sammy" the other Dean started in a mock tone of affection.

"I told you I'd be back before you knew it."

Sam lifted his head slightly, pure terror in his eyes as he watched his brother advance toward him, knife a the ready.

"I'm so glad you haven't passed out. You know more than I do how much you deserve this."

Dean blanched as he watched Sam make no move to deny what had been said, instead he kept his gaze trained on his fake brother, looking at him eyes wide with fear.

"After years of pretending-"

The other Dean said, knife beginning to trail along Sam's arm, the point only grazing the skin.

"I can actually do what I've wanted for so long. I don't have to act like I care about you, pretend that I love you."

Sam let out a small choked sob. The other Dean's face flashed with anger and the knife bit into the skin of Sam's bicep, fresh blood beginning to pour from the new wound.

"Don't make a sound Sammy, that was the rule, remember?"

Sam gave a tiny nod.

The real Dean was watching in horror, frozen to the spot. Sam was afraid of him. That was his little brother's greatest fear. Dean felt as if the floor would fall out from under him. No way was Sam afraid of him, was he? He could only watch as the fake him continued.

"You have no idea how much I hate you."

The other Dean took the knife and began slowly digging it into the fingernail of Sam's thumb. Dean saw Sam's left hand, bloody, shredded by the knife, and missing every finger nail. He knew what was going to happen to the right one.

"To think that I sold my soul for something as worthless as you."

The knife began to flay the finger nail away from the finger and Sam bit his lip so hard blood began dripping slowly down his mouth and chin.

"Stuck with that sense of duty, following the rule of 'take care of Sammy' because I loved dad."

A small whimper made its way out and the other Dean dug the knife in with more cruelty.

"The only thing redeemable about going to hell was learning how to make you suffer as much as possible."

Dean knew he was supposed to do something, this was Sam's fear and he was supposed to helping his brother fight it.

"That's not true."

For the first time Sam and the other Dean seemed to notice Dean's presence in the room. Sam's wide eyes looked at Dean in confusion and the other Dean paused in the ministrations to Sam's hand.

"I've never regretted taking care of Sam." Dean looked at Sam, green eyes meeting the terrified ones of his brother.

"I care about you Sam, I went to hell because I loved you."

The other Dean narrowed his eyes and stood up, attention no longer focused on Sam but rather on Dean.

"That's real cute, but the truth is that I've always hated Sam. He's always been a worthless screw up. Got mom killed, got Jess killed, got dad killed, got-"

"None of those things are Sam's fault." Dean said forcefully, interrupting his evil counterpart.

"Even if they were, I'd still love Sam."

The other Dean laughed cruelly at that. But Dean didn't care, what mattered was Sam. Keeping his gaze locked with his little brother's Dean felt hope rise in him as Sam's eyes seemed to shift, becoming less disbelieving.

"I never regretted taking care of you as a kid, you weren't a burden. I didn't hate you for going to Stanford, I was proud."

Dean's throat tightened with emotion.

"None of those death's were your fault. Mom made her choices, Jess was killed by a demon, and if anyone is to blame for dad's death it's me. I don't hate you for any of those Sam."

The other Dean was getting made, lip curling in anger and disgust.

"Shut up."

Dean glared defiantly at the thing pretending to be him before looking back at Sam. His brother still looked so lost and hurt, but at least now he was holding Dean's gaze as though it could ground him, as though he could be saved by his brother. It hurt to know that one of Sam's greatest fears was that his brother hated him. Sam shouldn't fear him, in any way. He was supposed to be what Sam ran to when he was afraid.

"I could never hate you Sam, I-"

Dean was cut off as the other Dean interrupted.

"You're a monster Sam! You tried to kill me and you slept with Ruby, I'm pretty sure that's a form of bestiality. One more thing that-"

Dean was the one interrupting this time.

"You were trying to do your best, I don't blame you for that Sam, I don't hate you."

The other Dean sneered.

"Drank demon blood like the monster you are and then killed Lilith letting the devil get free. You're a monster Sam!"

Dean was getting ready to shoot his counterpart.

"You killed a demon Sam, that's what hunters are supposed to do. You didn't know that that would set the devil free. We both got played, that wasn't your fault."

The other Dean growled in anger, hands tightening around the knife in his hand.

"Shut up!" It screamed. The other Dean turned and rammed the knife into Sam's shoulder, eyes kept on Dean and twisting in pleasure as Dean felt the air rush out of him when Sam screamed.

The fake Dean pulled the knife out and stared venomously at Dean. Dean jumped to action, he wasn't going to just sit and watch Sam be hurt. Fighting himself felt strange, the thing moved like him and was just as skilled. They were equally matched except for the fact that Dean had no weapon while the other had a knife. He dodged a lethal swing of the knife and struck out with his fist. The other Dean moved so that the fist glanced off of him and brought the knife back to try to sink it into Dean's chest. Dean caught the hand and they fell to the floor grappling for leverage over each other.

Dean was concentrating on not getting stabbed so he didn't hear Sam's panicked cry. The chair toppled and Sam went with it so that they landed on the other Dean. Dean used the moment to his advantage and rolled away, jumping to his feet. Sam was now on the ground, the back of the chair and consequentially Sam's back facing towards Dean. The other Dean rose, the knife in his hand covered in blood. Dean frowned as no wound was on his counterpart and he himself hadn't been hurt. With a sudden tug of panic he realized that Sam must have been hurt. Anger surged through him and he threw himself at his counterpart. Anger fueled his movements and he quickly got a hold of the knife and sunk it into the chest of the other Dean.

It's eyes widened in surprise for a brief moment before the light in them died. Dean let the body fall while he rushed to where Sam was still tied to the chair. With shaking fingers he began to untie Sam. Sam had been stabbed in the stomach. Dean felt his heart drop, the wound was fatal. Grabbing his brother from where he was collapsed on the ground, Dean cradled him to his chest. Sam's eyes were wide and glazed with pain.

Dean's hands were trembling and his eyes starting to water.

"It's okay Sam. You're alright, everything's alright."

Sam's head moved at the sound of the voice and his eyes locked onto Dean's.

"Dean?"

Dean gave him a watery smile.

"Yeah Sammy?"

Sam seemed to fight to put out the words.

"You don't hate me?"

Dean shook his head as he rocked Sam back and forth.

"No Sam, never. I could never hate you."

Sam gazed at him, judging the truth of his words. Finally he gave a small smile.

"Okay Dean."

Dean smiled again.

"I love you Sam."

Sam nodded.

"Love you too Dean."

A beat passed and everything began to dissolve into darkness. Dean had helped Sam face his first fear. Now he had to get ready to face Sam's second.

* * *

Is it too mushy? I think it might be too mushy. Maybe I should get rid of the 'I love yous'. What do you think?


	5. Chapter 5

They Call Me Monster: Chapter 5

* * *

"I denounce because though implicated and partially responsible, I have been hurt to the point of abysmal pain, hurt to the point of invisibility. And I defend because in spite of it all, I find that I love."

-Ralph Ellison 'Invisible Man'

* * *

The motel room dissolved around them and Dean felt like he was falling, stomach fluttering and protesting what was happening. The nauseous, dizzy feeling increased until Dean was sure he was going to puke and then it stopped and the dark was replaced by a room. Dean's eyes widened as he recognized the surroundings; he was back in the house where they had faced off with Lilith and lost. Dean's last memories of the place had been the cruel laughter and excruciating pain as Hell hounds had ripped into him. He was standing in the entry way of the house.

Dean forced himself back into memories, retracing the steps he and Sam had taken. It was eerily quiet, the silence making Dean shiver uncomfortably. Stepping into the dining room he saw the dead grandfather of the girl who Lilith had possessed and the table dressed up in nauseating foods. The body was still fresh, not even a day old. Walking past the room he headed to where he had died. He stopped though when he heard the sound of soft sobs. Dean stepped further in until he was pushing open the double doors into the room where he had died.

Sam was on his knees, arms wrapped around Dean's limp and empty body. He was rocking back and forth, head buried in his brother's neck with sobs being let loose in painful jerks. Dean was frozen, he had never thought about how his death had affected Sam, well he had but not in the time immediately after his death, not this scene which was intimate and painful. It was strange-Dean had always had extensive self-esteem issues-and Dean had never thought of Sam mourning him like this. After figuring out about the demon blood Dean had always pictured Sam quickly burying him and then immediately setting off with Ruby like she was the tin man and Sam was Dorothy.

This was-well it left Dean speechless to say the least-a cold pit of something growing in his stomach. Dean looked up at the clock. He remembered the time when he had died, Sam had been like this for over an hour. Taking a hesitant step closer Dean started to hear more than just the sobs, Sam was mumbling small 'sorrys' to Dean, pleas for his big brother to come back; that he couldn't live without him; that he had not been worth it. To just please be alive.

Dean was absolutely stunned, after Sam's last fear he was pretty sure he could face about anything, this however was something he would never have thought of. What was he supposed to do? Assure Sam that he would come back? That he wouldn't die? How hollow those words would sound, how pointless. Human death was the one inevitable outcome; especially as hunters imbued with holy duties, however unwanted they were. Dean swallowed nervously, unsure of what exactly he could do.

"Sam?"

Sam continued his motions as if he hadn't heard Dean. Dean thought back to the last fear, he hadn't become present without some effort.

"Sam." He said it louder and with more oomph. He was about to speak again when something caught his eye. The chair in the corner had flickered.

"Sam!" It was louder.

The entire room disappeared in one flicker and Dean was standing in a motel parking lot. The scene was similar to the last one. Dean was on the ground, dead, a bullet hole over his heart. Sam was on his knees, arms wrapped around his brother and tears leaking out. Sam looked more like he was in shock rather than grieving this time, Dean supposed that came from the fact that blood was still leaking out of him, nice and fresh. Dean couldn't have been dead more than a few minutes. Sam was saying something now too.

"But it's Wednesday, it's Wednesday."

Dean felt his stomach drop. He knew what this was, well, not literally. Sam had told him about the months of Dean dying and then the months of him staying dead. For Dean it had always felt like a weird joke, that feeling was always contested by the faraway look Sam would gain when talking about it. Dean had never brought it up or really thought about it. Him being dead meant a whole lot less to him than it did to Sam; this was probably the first time that Dean had really realized that.

This time he was faster in reaching out to Sam, a little louder and a little more insistent when calling his brother's name. But the same thing happened, the scene fell away in a dizzying rush and Dean found himself in a hospital room. Sam was passed out in a chair and his own body was spread in a hospital bed, hooked up to all sorts of machines.

Dean was starting to get sick of the flashbacks. This was the time right after their encounter with the yellow-eyed demon, Azazel. He didn't remember much about the accident, he hadn't been awake for it after all. Sam was hunched up painfully, eyes closed in sleep but not what Dean would call rest. The purple bruises on Sam's face glistened from the hospital lights and Sam looked overall like crap. Everything about his stay in the hospital was fuzzy, everything up to his miraculous recovery and his father's death. He hadn't really thought about how Sam had been doing through the whole thing. Seeing his brother now with eyes clear of grief and responsibility from the apocalypse he saw Sam at a point of vulnerability his brother never showed anymore.

Sam stirred and Dean tensed. Sam's eyes looked blearily at him and Dean was sure that Sam was seeing him, the thought passed though as Sam swung his head towards Dean's still form on the bed. Tears were leaking out, Sam looked absolutely devastated. He unbent from his awful position in the chair and scooted the chair right up to Dean's bed. A hesitant hand snaked up and clutched at the hand on the bed. Sam clung to Dean as if he was air, eyes gazing intensely at his older brother's lax form.

"You can't die Dean, I'm not going to let you."

It was a choked kind of whisper, Dean could barely understand it. The tears began pouring down and Sam sniffed loudly before brushing furiously at his eyes with the sleeve of his arm.

"You can't die." It was a little louder, more of a command than a plea. And then the heart monitor went crazy and all the noises that accompanied a person's death began to flurry about the room. Dean frowned, he most definitely didn't remember this. His brother was brushed to the side and then swept out of the room as Dean watched himself flat line. It continued and time of death was called. Dean knew that this definitely hadn't happened. However, being an invisible character in this whole scene had allowed him to lose focus, it wasn't until an anguished cry-something that Dean would pray to never hear again-sounded from his little brother and then Dean was paying attention to his little brother. He watched Sam toss himself at Dean's dead body and Sam collapsed on Dean's now lifeless body and began sobbing, expressing pleas and angry commands. Dean couldn't take this anymore, Sam was suffering, he had been since the beginning of this fear.

Dean marched forward and used a more physical approach, he grabbed onto his brother's jacket and spun him around. Shocked eyes met his, a train of emotions lighting along the face at warp speed. Dean kept a firm hold on his brother's forearm, staring steadily back, willing his brother to focus on him. Just as it started to work everything went dizzingly black and all senses seemed to be yanked away except the hold Dean had on Sam's arm. Moments passed and he landed again, this time they were in the motel room where Dean and Sam had fought before the convent. Sam was no longer in his grasp. Dean looked up to see his brother staring wide eyed at his hands which were covered in blood. Below him was the twisted and broken form of Dean; dead.

Dean was beyond sick of the stupid memory hops that had their twists that were meant to hurt Sam, he was friggin' pissed. Dean sprinted forward and took Sam by the shoulders, gently shaking his brother.

"It's not real Sam!"

His brother blinked in confusion before raising his eyes to meet Dean's. They were desperate and pleading, filled with self-loathing. Dean grit his teeth in frustration.

"It's not real! I'm real Sam!" He gave his brother another shake, this time harder.

The scene around him flickered. This fear seemed to involve a loop that had Dean die and Sam watch and grieve. Dean would've laughed to learn that one of Sam's greatest fears was Dean dying. Following Lucifer's rising Dean wasn't sure what he meant to his brother. Knowing that the best way to torture Sam was by killing Dean and making Sam live it, well it would've made him feel all warm and fuzzy and horrified. Right now though, he was trying to ground his brother and keep them from dancing between deaths.

"I'm not dead Sammy."

Sam seemed to process this, head nodding ever so slightly.

"Right here, alright?"

He squeezed Sam's shoulders tightly.

"I am not dead!"

"But you were, you were." The crazy look in Sam's eyes was starting to come back; that look which held the precipice of sanity and life for Sam.

Dean was firm and a desperately good liar but in being inside Sam's mind he found that lying seemed an unworthy solution, a band aid that couldn't just be slapped on and expected to stay. Refuting the fact that Dean had died and would die again wouldn't solve this. What was Sam's real fear? Dean's death? Yes, in a way it was, but why would someone fear another's death if not for love? If not because they feared living in a world without that person. So Dean paused. He was overwhelmed, when had Sam suddenly stopped being able to live without his brother? Wasn't that Dean's vice, his greatest weakness?

The Sam beneath him was breathing harshly now, eyes glazing over; Dean was losing him. Everything went dark, slipping away.

The scene this time was the graveyard where both Mary and John were buried. Sam was standing over the tombstones, all three seeming to stare back at him. Dean stopped short; three? Walking closer he saw his own name inscripted plainly on a marble head stone. It would have struck him as strange and comedic except they were still in Sam's head.

Sam's entire attention was focused on the headstones. He knelt, as if collapsing all together. Tears were in his eyes and Dean knew from his brother's posture that guilt was eating away at his little brother. It made him feel his own pang of guilt. Sam was always bent in shame and self-condemnation now and Dean had been alright with that. Now though it was eating it's way through his gut.

"Dean."

Dean's head turned in response to Sam. He quickly realized though that his brother was now addressing the headstone.

"I'm sor-" Sam broke off as he let out a choked cry.

"I'm sorry."

Dean frowned, he needed to do something. Sinking to his knees next to Sam he glanced at his brother.

"It's all my fault."

Dean wanted to scream at his brother that that wasn't true but he held back. Screaming and yelling hadn't done anything so far; it never had with Sam. Dean wondered when he'd forgotten that in the last five years. There was a reason Sam had listened to Dean when they were children and not to dad.

"I couldn't save you."

"Sam you never had to save me, that wasn't your job."

Sam didn't respond and Dean guessed his brother was unable to hear him.

"You were always saving me."

"That's because I'm the big brother."

Sam reached a hand out to the headstone, fingers reverently tracing Dean's name.

"You weren't supposed to leave me alone." The hand fell away to clench tightly in Sam's lap. Sam bowed his head then, tears dripping from blotchy cheeks.

And then Dean understood. He had promised Sam, so long ago now, to never leave him. They would be brothers always. One wasn't supposed to go out unless the other went too. They were a pair that had made their vows to each other, instead of 'till death do us part' they had proclaimed silently 'till death take us together'.

Dean laid a hand on his brother's shoulder, staring at his own tombstone next to Sam.

"I promise Sam. I won't leave you alone again."

Sam turned his head towards Dean, taking eyes bright with emotion.

"One of us goes, we go together."

The anguish in Sam's eyes faded somewhat and he gave a small nod. In that instant the world vanished again with an unpleasant pull to Dean's gut, this time with finality. Second fear down, one to go.

* * *

There we go! Give an honest opinion!


	6. Chapter 6

They Call Me Monster: Chapter 6

* * *

"If only it were all so simple! If only there were evil people somewhere insidiously committing evil deeds, and it were necessary only to separate them from the rest of us and destroy them. But the line dividing good and evil cuts through the heart of every human being. And who is willing to destroy a piece of his own heart?"

-Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn, 'The Gulag Archipelago'

* * *

This time when Dean landed he wasn't anywhere he recognized. It was a round room, mirrors lining the walls to create a dizzying effect. Sam was in the center, just staring at the wall. His expression was blank and was reflected back those thousands of times when two mirrors face each other. Nearly just as unsettling was the fact that Dean couldn't see himself in any of the mirrors. He was-in a way- invisible.

The room was unbearably quiet, a thick tension hanging in the room that confused Dean and set him on edge. Sam was still standing, just staring into the mirror. When nothing happened, Dean took a few tentative steps toward Sam. He couldn't tell what fear this was but after the previous ones he was slightly afraid to find out. Sam flinched at something, shoulders tensing. Dean looked closely and noticed what had caused Sam's reaction. His brother's eyes were pitch black, both eyes swallowed up by that empty color. Dean nearly flinched himself when he saw it.

The mirror image cocked its head but Sam's head stayed still. The familiarity of the scene brought Dean a sharp unpleasant pang. He could recall his experience with the dream root, his face staring at him with cold black eyes that held nothing in them, nothing at all. Any malice and hate was expressed through a quirked eyebrow, the pull of the face in a grotesque smile. When you looked in demon eyes there was nothing.

"Hi, Sam."

The voice was Sam's, or rather a cruel mockery of it. Sarcastic, sharp, bitter all wrapped up in two words along with that God awful smile. There was a muffled sound that Dean couldn't quite hear and he watched as his brother gave a little flinch in response to the monster in the mirror. Dean had yet to say anything or intervene, he was curious, in a morbid way. So far he wasn't entirely sure what this fear was. He remember his own demon self and the overwhelming fear of going to hell and the crippling low self-esteem that had been paired with it. He had feared death and torture and eternal pain. Dean had a feeling that that wasn't quite what Sam feared.

"No hello?" the image asked in mock hurt. Sam seemed to falter more; however, his feet didn't move and he stayed standing where he was.

"That's cold, even for you."

Dean was still curious, mind running with what the possibilities of this meant. A cruel and mean thought crossed his mind. That maybe this wasn't so much a fear but a manifestation of what had been festering in Sam since he had began drinking demon blood, a something which lay hidden beneath his brother's skin and had come out at the convent; was something which once let out would never go back in. Dean batted the thought back, it was unfair to Sam and ridiculous. Sam wasn't a demon.

"Strange especially because we're always so close. Inseparable you could say seeing how I'm always with you."

Doubt swam in Dean, poking its head up to bare its teeth at him. Sam's eyes had gone black at the convent, if only for a short moment. Black eyes meant demon.

"I've always been with you, just waiting for you to see me, feel me."

Sam let out another small noise. Dean heard it better this time around, it had an unpleasant likeness to a whimper, a soft mewl of pain.

The black eyed Sam seemed to morph, coquettish smile fading into a strangely imploring stare.

"We're meant to be Sam. You and I. You were always meant to be a monster."

Dean watched in fascinated horror as the thing stretched an arm out, reaching for Sam. The mirror cracked and melted, as if a glass window in which someone was breaking through while also melting through. It was amazing looking. A hand extended out and then the body began to follow through. Sam meanwhile seemed to be struggling, entire body heaving to breakaway but feet seemingly glued to the floor.

The demon Sam broke the rest of the way through and the glass melded back together leaving the mirror intact and once again reflecting the millions of redundant images in smaller and smaller patterns. The demon Sam seemed to shake itself off, a grin once again growing. Sam's struggles doubled and he was now panting out a plea of 'no'.

The demon Sam cooed softly at Sam.

"Don't worry Sammy, this was the way it was always meant to be."

Then it took its hand and thrust it into Sam's chest. There was an ear-splitting scream, pure agony sounding from Sam as his mouth threw itself open, jaw stretched to let out pain in the form of sound. The sound reverberated for a moment and then Dean seemed to be pulled out of his tenebrous daze. Sam was screaming, Sam was in pain. A Sam in pain meant Dean needed to do something starting yesterday. Dean began to walk towards Sam, his brother's scream never ending. The hand which was in Sam's chest was pushed in and the demon Sam sunk in up to the elbow and then up to the shoulder. The scream intensified and the demon was pushing itself all the way in. Sam, who had been shaking and writhing in pain, suddenly stilled before crumpling to the floor.

Dean ran then, sliding to his knees next to Sam who was collapsed on the floor, appearing by all means to be dead.

"Sammy?" Dean placed a hesitant hand on his brother's shoulder. There was no response.

"Sammy?!" Dean said more urgently, hand now shaking his brother. There was a twitch. Dean stopped, hand pulling back. Sam twitched again and then like a marionette his head lifted and turned towards Dean. There was something very very wrong. The eyes were blank, mouth crooked, movements gossamer and broken. Then he stilled, empty eyes staring up into Dean's. A beat passed of silence. Then Sam's eyes turned black and he was moving, mouth twisting into a smile hands moving with unnatural speed and Dean felt fingers close around his throat.

"Hey Deano!"

Dean struggled, his air being choked out of him as Sam slammed him to the ground by his neck. Terror rose in him.

"Sam." the word was barely audible, choked out around the long slender fingers of his brother.

"Sorry Dean, Sammy's not home."

The fingers tightened and Dean's vision blurred a moment. Then the hands were loosening. Dean's vision came back and he saw Sam's face twisted in pain and his entire body trembling.

"No. No, no no no."

Sam was whispering it, tears now streaming from his eyes. He then looked Dean in the eye.

"Run."

Dean was scrambling to get up, adrenaline pumping as he ran away. The room wasn't round anymore, instead it was open end of a hallway. Dean headed down the hallway, arms pumping as he heard another scream from Sam which turned into an angry sound. Then he heard the unmistakable sound of Sam's gait as his brother raced after him. The hallway stretched on and Dean started trying to think of what to do. Oh God, what was he supposed to do? Sam, fear, help him conquer. He was sure doing a shit job at that. What was the fear anyway? So far it seemed like the only thing going on was Sam battling over whether or not to kill Dean.

Dean didn't know when it happened but the hallway had suddenly morphed as he was running into a hotel room. He halted, looking around quickly, trying to catalog what he could use to defend himself without killing Sam. He frowned though, he knew this place. An unpleasant tug in his stomach told him that this was the hotel room where Sam and him had fought, genuinely, truly, for the first time fought. He painfully remembered pleading with Sam and then them fighting, just for Sam to walk out.

His moment of recognition and reflection cost him. The demon Sam, or Sam, or whatever slammed him up against the wall. The awful look on his face had come back and his hands were once again at Dean's throat. This time however they didn't press down. They began to tremble, a shaking which started at the finger tips and then ran all the way down Sam. Dean watched as Sam stumbled back, the merciless look gone to be replaced by a pained and terrified look. Sam staggered back again, falling to his knees. His face scrunched up in pain and he let out a small cry. Dean was once again moving towards his brother. He took one step though and Sam let out a loud shout.

"No!"

Dean froze.

Sam shook his head vigorously, swaying in his kneeling position.

"I don't wanna hurt you." it was said quietly and desperately.

Dean felt his heart drop. Guilt made a come back and he was side swiped by the realization of what this was. Sam was afraid of hurting his brother, afraid of becoming something that would disregard Dean's safety and want to hurt him. Dean wanted to cry, Sam couldn't care about him this much, he just couldn't.

"Oh Sammy."

Sam's face crumpled in grief at the nickname and his body gave a violent tremor and he fell from his knees to his back. Dean rushed forward, hands catching Sam's shoulders and beginning to pull his brother into him. A weak hand that was still shaking pushed at him.

"No, no, no."

Dean looked down at Sam and Sam stared imploringly at him.

"Don't wanna hurt you." Sam's adams apple convulsed and tears began streaming out faster, his body stiffened in pain and then he was back to shaking again.

"Can't."

Dean shook his head, tears of his own welling up. This whole thing was Goddamn impossible. Sam was in pain and Dean couldn't do anything.

"You won't Sam, you won't."

The hand that had continually been shoving at Dean to make him go away faltered and Dean pulled Sam closer.

"You won't hurt me Sam, you won't."

"But I have. I have." Sam sobbed out. Both hands were now pushing at Dean, trying to make him separate himself from his brother.

Dean pulled back and looked at Sam again.

"You gotta do it Dean."

Dean frowned in confusion.

"Kill me."

Dean felt something stutter in his chest.

"Like you promised, like you said you would."

An icy hand wrapped itself around Dean's chest and squeezed. He began shaking his head no. Because he couldn't do that, not now that he knew. And then a knife was there and Sam was shoving at Dean, trying to make him take it.

"No Sam, no."

Sam shuddered, frustration and fear intensifying.

"You have to, I'm a monster. Just like you said."

And Dean remembered when he had shouted that at Sam in the very motel room they were in currently. Told his brother that he was a monster. Then Dean remembered why he was here, why he was currently in Sam's head playing tete-a-tete with Sam's mind. This was a fear, one that he was going to help his brother face and conquer. Determination filled him, raising him above what he'd felt the first two fears.

"No. No you're not."

Sam frowned.

"You're not a monster Sam." Dean gripped Sam's chin and made his brother look him in the eye.

"You will never be a monster. You made a bad decision but you still care, you still want to save people and you care so Goddamn much it hurts to think about."

Some of the agony in Sam's face abated a little and Dean continued.

"Everyone makes mistakes-"

Sam sent him a look. Not everyone's mistakes lead to the friggin' apocalypse.

"No. You thought you were doing the right thing. Besides, Sam, you think I'm a saint? Things I've done that knife should be going into me. I tortured people in hell for ten years and I liked it."

Sam frowned more deeply this time, head shaking furiously. Dean shook his head in response.

"It's true Sam, you've messed up but so have I. Everybody has a little bad in them, it doesn't make them monsters. It's when they give up on being good that they become monsters. You've never given up on that."

Sam seemed to falter at the words, acquiescing as he always had when his big brother told him something with so much conviction.

"Don't forget that. You're not a monster, never will be and you most definitely aren't going to hurt me."

Sam hesitated and then his face crumpled up and the shakes died. Then the tears began pouring out and Sam was heaving out heavy, relieved sobs. Dean pulled Sam closer, pressing his brother's face into his shoulder, his own tears passing.

"It's alright Sammy, it's okay."

Dean closed his eyes as he tightened his arms around his brother and Sam snaked his arms around Dean. There was a moment and all was right and then everything faded away.

* * *

This is the last fear however this is not the end of chick flick moments. Sam is going to wake up but he won't remember anything. Dean is going to have to instigate the mush and fix things with Sam. Also, Sam's condition doesn't miraculously go away, he is still all skin and bones and fever. My God I love to whump him so.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

"We live as we dream-alone..."

-Joseph Conrad, "Heart of Darkness"

* * *

When Dean opened his eyes again, he thanked God that it was to the sight of the latest crappy motel room that he and his brother had been staying in. He didn't think he could have survived being in Sam's head even one second longer. As he sat up, he realized that he was on the floor and guessed that he must have fallen there sometime during the whole dream thing or whatever you wanted to call it. The bowl that had held the blood was overturned on the carpet beside him, the contents now staining the carpet a lovely shade of rust-red. Dean blinked sluggishly at his surroundings. He felt normal—a little exhausted, but that was more from the strain of the emotional roller coaster he'd been on than anything else. And there was something else, he thought. He racked his brain for a few minutes before he realized what it was—Sam.

Dean leaped up and turned towards the bed. Sam was lying in the middle of it just like before, body still just as wrecked. This time, however, his fevered gaze flicked about the room while his brow pinched in confusion.

"Sam?"

Sam turned, and his confused look immediately morphed into something more like his usual expression of guilt and self-loathing. Dean frowned; he would've thought that what had happened in the dream-world would have helped alleviate his brother's insecurities.

"Dean?" Sam croaked in the silence of the room, gulping as his throat constricted painfully from dryness. Dean was already heading for a water bottle. He unscrewed the cap immediately and held the bottle to his younger brother's lips. Sam's confusion seemed to grow at the gesture, and he weakly tried to take the bottle, which Dean kept a firm hold of.

"Let me, Sam."

Sam looked at Dean hopelessly and finally let his hands fall back onto the bed. After a few gulps, Sam was exhausted, so Dean set the bottle down on the table next to him. Sam's eyes slid shut and he let out an exhausted breath.

"Wha—" Sam attempted weakly, prying his eyes open after a moment.

"What happened?"

Dean looked at Sam, stunned.

"You don't remember?"

Sam frowned.

"Remember what?"

Dean shook his head.

"The-the cauchemar."

Sam frowned. "The what?"

"The thing that was putting people in comas."

Realization hit Sam and he nodded briefly, guilt overcoming him.

"Yeah, I remember we were supposed to be tracking it down." Sam averted his eyes.

"I'm sorry I made it so you couldn't go after it."

Dean gaped for a moment. It seemed like Sam didn't remember anything. He watched as Sam seemed to withdraw into himself over his guilt, and his ridiculous ability to blame himself for being injured and hurt. Dean was so shocked he didn't respond. Sam took it as an indication of further condemnation.

"We can go, when you're ready. I don't think I can move right now, but I can try to research."

Sam was staring imploringly at Dean. Dean shook his head.

"No, Sam, the cauchemar is dead. Besides, even if it wasn't, you aren't in any condition to do anything."

Sam looked as if Dean had said he hated him. He gave a tremulous nod and looked down at the blankets.

"Sorry." The wounded whisper frustrated Dean to no end. He really wished that Sam would remember what had happened in the dream world.

"Sam—" Dean broke off, wondering what he could possibly say to explain the intense experience he'd had inside Sam's head. How could he admit to having witnessed something so deeply personal for Sam? It felt like he had intruded in on a part of Sam that his brother had never meant to share. Dean was worried, considering the flush that lingered in Sam's cheeks, about how Sam would react to the information and how it would affect him in his weakened state. He looked so fragile as it was.

Everything else could come later, he decided. Right now, Sam needed to rest and start down the path to recovery.

"Just get some sleep, Sam."

Sam looked absolutely miserable, but he shook his head and let his eyes slip shut.

* * *

Sam woke up still feeling like he'd been reduced to nothing. He was shaky and slightly nauseous. He felt light, since bones were nearly all that was left of him. He had never he felt so incredibly weak.

Looking around, he noted a makeshift I.V. bag hanging from a wall lamp. He tracked the attached tubing with his gaze to find that the needle-tipped end was inserted into his arm.

Everything came back to him, sort of. He remembered them arriving in Salinas and Dean leaving the room as soon as they had gotten there, not wanting to be in his company. Sam felt a dull pang at that thought, but he had gotten used to the idea that Dean hated him. Sam could remember researching and then-and then— Sam frowned, trying to recall what had happened next. He'd gotten up to try to nap since he had hardly slept at all and then. . . after that everything was fuzzy. Then he had woken up feeling as though he'd been in a concentration camp for the last six months.

"Hey, you're awake."

Dean was looking at him, but he didn't look mad or frustrated. Just worried and a little tired. A cup of water was being handed to him, one of Dean's firm hands guiding it. Sam felt guilt begin to tear at him, but he accepted his brother's ministrations without comment. After he'd finished a few sips of water, a bowl of broth was suddenly in front of him and a hand was bringing a spoon to his mouth.

"It's alright, Dean, I can feed myself."

Dean looked at him dubiously and continued raising the spoon. Sam felt his heart sink. Great— Dean didn't even trust him enough to eat on his own. Sam had screwed up. Considering his condition and the fact that Dean wasn't worried about the cauchemar, he was pretty sure he'd been attacked by it and Dean had had to save the day, which meant that Sam had let his brother down. Again. Sam felt disgusted with himself; he had messed up and now he couldn't even feed himself. As he inspected his deteriorated body, he realized mournfully that it would take months for him to become even remotely healthy again, and even longer to get back to the shape he'd been in.

Sam opened his mouth to speak but Dean filled his mouth with another spoonful of broth before he could get a word out.

"Save your strength, Sammy—you were out for nearly two days. I was starting to get worried."

Dean smiled, but the stress of the last few days showed through the cracks in his facade.

"Figured we could hole up here for a few weeks until you feel ready to move and then we can head to Bobby's to take a few months off."

"Dean—"

"Don't argue, this isn't something you get a choice in."

"De—"

"No Sam, I'm not risking you to shave off a few days of travel. It's not worth it."

Sam stopped at what Dean had said and the two brothers leveled each other with stubborn stares.

"I have to pee, Dean."

Dean nodded, setting the bowl and spoon to the side. He was hovering near Sam, pulling the blankets back and grabbing his brother's now stick-thin arm. Sam gave Dean an aggravated glare, which fell from his face when he tried to sit up. It felt like someone had sapped all of his strength, and his arms were shaking with the effort of pushing himself into a sitting position. Head rushing and muscles complaining, Sam shut his eyes and nearly fell back onto the bed. A firm hand grasped his back and a soothing voice talked him back from the edge of unconsciousness.

When Sam finally opened his eyes again he saw his brother smiling gently at him.

"I don't think you're going to make it to the bathroom walking."

And then Dean reached forward, one arm sliding under his brother's knees and another wrapping around his chest. Normally, Dean wouldn't have been able to lift Sam, much less carry him like this. Now, though, Sam was just a tall wisp, weighing barely a hundred pounds. Sam's cheeks burned in embarrassment as his brother picked him up with ease and carried him to the bathroom. After setting him on the seat, Dean turned.

"Call when you're done, or if you need me."

With that, the door clicked shut. Sam felt exhausted, and Dean was confusing him. Just yesterday—or, he guessed three days ago, before he was attacked by the cauchemar—Dean had been avoiding him like the plague. Before then, even when he was stitching Sam up he'd been quiet and distant and uncaring. This Dean was attentive and worried. It was filling Sam with unease. Just when he'd started to get used to the idea that his brother hated him and would never forgive him, Dean started acting like he cared again. Sam closed his eyes against the tears that were pressing against them, unbidden. He didn't think he could do this, go back to thinking Dean cared about him just to have his brother pull the rug out from under him and tell him the God-awful truth.

Dean had made it pretty clear that Sam meant nothing to him, yet now here they were with him acting like everything was fine and dandy. The tears seeped past his tightly shut eyelids and trailed down his face while a sob built in his chest. He'd spent the last few months after the convent worried and afraid, wondering if Dean was going to plant a knife in his chest. It was too long a time of holding back and now that Sam was tired and exhausted he couldn't stop.

* * *

The last two days Dean had had a lot of time to think. Empty hours of staring at his sleeping brother ensured that he had at least a little time to think about the past events. Many of the things he'd assumed about his brother were wrong— that was difficult to take in. As much as it relieved him to know that Sam loved him more than he'd ever thought, seeing what his brother was afraid of worried him. He could never hate Sam, never, but his brother didn't seem to believe that. Entering Sam's mind had made Dean realize that he and his brother needed to figure things out. Going on the way they had been was only going to lead to more heartbreak and more loss.

Standing outside the bathroom door, this became very apparent to Dean as he heard his brother begin to cry. Without hesitation, Dean opened the door to see his brother huddled in on himself on the toilet seat, face hidden in his hands and bony shoulders shaking with sobs.

He wrapped himself around his brother, pulling him in for a tight hug.

"Aw, Sammy. I'm sorry."

The sobs became more violent but Sam turned into him, face pressing against his shoulder and arms wrapping around him. They sat there for several minutes, Dean just holding Sam while he cried. Eventually, the tears quieted and Sam kept his face buried against his brother taking in deep breaths to calm back down. Sam pulled away and Dean stepped back a little to give his brother space. Sam wiped at his now blotchy face and gave a hiccuping laugh.

"I still gotta pee."

Dean chuckled. "Alright."

He stepped away until he was in the doorway where he stopped and looked at Sam, a teasing grin in place.

"Don't fall off the toilet seat, princess."

Sam laughed again, and Dean's smile widened.

"Shut up, jerk."

"Just saying, bitch."

Dean stepped out and shut the door. A few minutes later, he came back in and carried his brother back to the bed. As Sam settled back, the comfortable ease they had attained in the bathroom fell away again and Sam began avoiding Dean's gaze. Dean let out a soft sigh. Some things took time and a little more than just crying. Sam fell asleep then, leaving Dean time to figure out what to do and how to fix their broken relationship.

By the time Sam woke up, it was another day later and Dean had refilled the I.V. and stocked the mini-fridge with frozen food. He was running his brother on an I.V. with basic nutrition to help Sam get better. So far, the only things Sam could keep down were broths and light soups. The fever had made a comeback at one point, and Sam had been delirious. The fever had broken now, though, and Sam finally had a healthy flush to his cheeks. Despite this, it was still disconcerting to see Sam so unbearably thin. It seemed almost representative of Sam's mental state of the past few months. Dean didn't realize how he'd not noticed how Sam had been barely hanging on.

That was all about to change though. He had made his mind up after talking to Bobby. Dean had called asking about the other patients. With the creature dead, it was really up to the victims to pull through. Dean couldn't enter each of their minds— it had been dangerous enough with Sam who Dean knew better than anybody else. The only way any of them would wake up now is if they could face their fears and defeat them. They'd talked a bit about that and sighed away the fact that the body count was going to go up but at least no more victims would be made. Then Bobby had asked about Sam. Dean hadn't told Bobby much about the time he'd spent in Sam's mind but the older man seemed to understand. It was agreed that the apocalypse could be put on the back burner for a bit.

Dean had hung up, knowing that he needed to be as frank and honest with Sam as Sam had been with him, however unintentional the mind experience had been.

"So, Sam."

Sam gave a small nod, having gone back to being self-condemning and meek.

"You don't remember anything?"

Sam frowned and looked at his brother.

"I told you Dean, I remember everything up to right before the cauchemar attacked me. I was unconscious, and then I woke up."

Dean nodded thoughtfully. A moment passed.

"Are—" Sam faltered "Did something happen?"

Dean looked at Sam and nodded.

"Yeah, something did."

Another moment passed as Sam watched his brother think something out.

"I need to talk to you about it, actually."


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

* * *

"Perfect love has a breath of poetry that can exalt the relations of the least-instructed human beings."

George Elliot, 'Silas Marner'

* * *

"So, what do you know about cauchemars?"

Sam raised a brow, however weakly, at the strange question.

"I've never even heard of them, Dean."

Sam had woken up to find that he'd slept for nearly two days again. Almost as soon as he'd woken up, Dean was trying to stuff food down him. He'd tried toast but it had come back up, so they had settled on more broth.

Dean nodded and looked off to the side, deep in thought. He seemed to be doing that a lot lately.

"They're from France, originally. Apparently, they haven't been seen outside the country and are really only found in certain parts of France. They're up there in the rare and endangered category of monsters."

Sam watched Dean, interest and confusion the only feelings he could manage. Despite having slept so much, he was exhausted. Dean had said he'd been feverish earlier and had woken up delirious a few times.

"Not much to look at, honestly. Ugly little beasts that look a lot like a gargoyle but are about the size of a cat."

Dean looked at Sam, but, though he was clearly addressing his younger brother, he still appeared lost in thought. He absentmindedly tucked an edge of the blanket closer around Sam.

"They knock out their victims with some sort of saliva poison, which forces the person to experience their worst fears. The cauchemar then feeds on the fear."

Sam frowned, becoming uncomfortable as he considered what he feared most.

"For a victim to wake, they have to face their fears, which is a lot easier to do if someone enters their mind and helps them."

Dean finally looked at Sam, his gaze serious and solemn.

"I did that Sammy, I went into your head, and I saw three of your greatest fears."

Dean waited as Sam processed the implications of what he'd said.

"Wha-" Sam licked his lips nervously. "What did you see?"

"Apparently, one of your greatest fears is that I hate you."

By that point, Sam wasn't looking at Dean anymore, and at those words, he seemed to retreat further into himself. Dean watched sadly.

"You're afraid I'm going to die again."

If possible, Sam seemed to shrink further away.

"And, you're afraid of becoming a monster."

There was silence.

"What else?" Sam asked in a tiny voice that was shaking with emotion.

Dean shook his head. "Nothing else, Sammy. But I gotta say, you sure worry over nothing."

Sam looked up, confused.

Dean's smile was brittle and, despite having thought this all out, he was still unsure of how to approach this subject: whether to shrug it off as a joke, that Sam was just completely and totally wrong—not that the kid's fears were ungrounded— or talk to Sam seriously.

"One thing I know, probably the only thing I'm actually completely sure of, is that I don't hate you."

The disbelief on Sam's face, and the pain, was enough to make Dean feel like he had failed somewhere, terribly.

"In fact, Sam, I don't even dislike you. I love you. You're my little brother."

"Please mean that Dean, please. Don't just say it, not like that."

Dean's throat was dry. He loved Sam, so much that it hurt sometimes. Sam was his brother, his kid (and he was Dean's, because he was the one who had raised Sam, cared for his every ache and pain since he could barely walk). That had never changed.

"Sam, I do. I mean it."

Sam shook his head, bitter tears streaming down his cheeks and mouth trembling in a futile effort to suppress his emotions.

"Maybe the Sam I was before. The one you would die for."

Sam wouldn't look at Dean—he kept his face turned towards the wall, away from his big brother.

"Sam," Dean said imploringly.

"It's true, Dean, and you know it. Who I am now— you can't stand me."

"That's not true, Sam," Dean replied immediately. His hands were held up, hovering, unsure of what to do.

Sam finally turned to look at Dean, his absolute grief overshadowed by a ferocious desperation to not have his hopes raised and dashed, to not have his sanity taken and shredded like it had so many times before death after death and failure after failure.

"You were wrong about my last fear. I already am a monster. I have been for the last year."

The fierceness died a little. "No one loves a monster, Dean."

Sam shifted his head so it was facing the wall once again. He flinched when a gentle hand gripped his.

"You really think that, Sam?"

Sam made no response.

"You know why I was so angry all the time?"

Sam didn't react to what he'd asked, but Dean continued, moving so he was sitting on the bed next to his brother.

"I was scared."

Sam looked at him, then. Dean would admit to having some emotions, but fear wasn't one of them. His eyes were searching and wary and brimming with pain.

"I was scared I was going to lose you. I was so afraid that you didn't need me anymore, and that I'd failed you, that I got mad."

Dean leaned a little closer and brought his other hand up, taking his brother's other hand, so that both were clasped between his own.

"People only get scared over things they love, Sam."

Sam's hold was loose and he wasn't gripping back. Tears welled up in his eyes again, but Sam held them back just as he had before. Dean tightened his grip and pulled his brother forward into a comforting embrace.

"Guess that means you're still a person. Like you said— monsters can't be loved."

Sam buried his face into Dean's shoulder, crying for the second time that week.

"As for me dying, I can't promise anything."

Sam right away started to push at Dean, but Dean held him close.

"I won't leave you again. I promise, alright? We go, we go together, all the sonsofbitches out there be damned."

Sam chuckled through his tears. Dean rubbed Sam's back but Sam was too exhausted to put up a fight about being treated like a child. Dean pulled Sam back and looked his brother in the eyes.

"Now, how about you get some more sleep and I'll get us ready for our trip to Bobby's."

Sam nodded, eyes already drooping. Dean settled Sam back down on the bed. He moved to get up, but one of Sam's hands snaked out to grab his. It wasn't a strong grip, but it was tight enough for Dean to get the message. With a small smile, he settled back on the bed.

* * *

By the end of the week, Sam was eating solid food and making great progress. Dean planned on them heading to Bobby's after another week, hopefully when Sam could walk to the bathroom by himself. The past few days had been surreal; no one had bothered them, the weather was just about perfect and no news had come on to remind them of the impending apocalypse. It was just Sam and Dean, little brother and big brother, no hunting or anything else to draw their attention away from each other. The next week passed in much the same way, and by the end of it, Dean was packing the Impala. He carried Sam out to the car, stealing some of the hotel's blankets and pillows in the process. He knew it would be a long drive to South Dakota, nearly 2,000 miles and about 30 hours of drive time.

All in all, they ended up at Bobby's in one piece. The drive took them about five days, since Sam's body couldn't handle spending extended periods of time in the Impala. Bobby, as always, was at the door waiting for them when they pulled up, despite the encumbering addition of his wheelchair.

"You boys took long enough," Bobby said, eyeing Dean (who was carrying Sam once again).

He followed them into the front room, where Dean set his younger brother down. Bobby got a good look at him and cursed.

"Goddamn, boy, you barely look alive."

Sam was tired and pale, exhausted from the trip. He managed a soft chuckle and a slight head nod.

"Don't try and butter me up or anything, Bobby."

Bobby's shock faded a little, replaced by sadness.

"I'm sure you'll be just as pretty as you were, soon enough, son."

"That's not saying much, Bobby. Sam was pretty ugly before."

Dean had come back in and was setting a few bags down in the front room, keeping those meant for the upstairs bedroom. Sam gave him an annoyed glare, but it faded quickly enough.

He let out an annoyed huff, wanting to quip back in an equally rude and brotherly way. However, the small act of huffing took all of his breath, and he leaned back on the couch out of exhaustion, no longer able to summon up the energy required to insult his brother.

"Ah-ah," Dean said.

Sam felt a hand on his shoulder.

"You're not sleeping until you've eaten, and then we're getting you to the upstairs bedroom."

Sam let out a whiny moan but Dean's hands were already propping him up.

"After that, you can sleep."

Sam allowed Dean to spoon feed him and then his brother was carrying him upstairs. Sam was exhausted and half-asleep by the time Dean set him down on the bed.

"No offense, man, but I really hope that you're up to walking before you gain much more weight. Carrying around your ass, light as it is, is a pain."

Sam let out a soft hmm, already starting to fall asleep when Dean began tucking him in.

"You really need to get better. The two of us need to kick this apocalypse, and it's gonna be a lot easier with us working together."

Sam stiffened just barely, but Dean noticed.

"Did I pinch you or something?"

Sam didn't respond. What Dean had said was still sinking in. Was that all Dean needed him for? A key player in the apocalypse, and therefore necessary to keep placated? Had Dean lied about everything before?

"Sam?"

Dean was leaned over now, worried eyes staring at Sam's face.

"If—" Sam stopped, his eyes searching Dean's face with a desperation that had Dean immediately worried.

"'If what,' Sam?"

"If I wasn't Lucifer's vessel, would you still keep me?"

Dean frowned, completely confused by his brother's sudden change in mood.

"Keep you? What do you mean?"

"Would I matter?" Dean barely caught the breathless question, but doing so only increased his confusion while succeeding in making him even more worried.

"Sam, I don't understand." His hand was on Sam's forehead in an instant, the back of his hand meeting warm—but not overly-warm—skin.

Sam was brushing the hand away weakly and still staring insistently at Dean.

"Don' have a fever."

Dean nodded, eyes looking Sam over, trying to think of another cause for this suddenly strange behavior.

"Am I only worth the 'no'?"

Dean paused at this question, and then everything made sense. His heart dropped.

"No Sam, no. It's not like that. I'm not doing this just because I don't want you to say yes. I mean, I don't want you to, but I'd do this anyway."

Dean was looking his brother in the eye, willing him to believe his words. Sam stared back with equal intensity, eyes searching and gauging the honesty of what Dean had just said.

"If we had to kill you to stop the apocalypse, I wouldn't do it, Sam. Nothing would be worth that, nothing worth you."

Sam looked a second longer before he smiled and gave a tiny nod. His eyes shut and he whispered something quietly.

"Okay, Dean. Okay."

Dean let out a haggard breath and kept his hand in his brother's as he watched Sam fall asleep. They were messed up, but they had each other and Dean didn't need God's affirmation to know that that was enough. Dean stayed after Sam fell asleep, wedging himself onto the bed so it would be more comfortable. It was strange but he felt lighter than he had in a long time. Being able to get along with his brother was the key factor in whether or not he had peace of mind. Looking down at Sam's face he was grateful. His mind wandered back to the woman he spoke to during the case, Esmeralda. She was right, he was lucky, he had Sam and he loved his brother and it seemed his brother loved him back just as fiercely. He could be content with that; happy. He had someone who cared about and loved him and that was enough.

* * *

That was fun! Thanks for reading, you have all been an awesome crowd! I hope it ended satisfactorily enough for y'all. I like writing and I'm glad there are some people out there who can enjoy what I write! Hopefully I'll be posting another story soon!

Special thanks to my more than amazing (so amazing there isn't a word for it) beta _seitanspawn_ , this glorious person is the reason why you see the work before you! Send her your figurative cookies, love, money, fame, anything a gal could want, and chocolate pudding (because chocolate pudding is perfect).

A big thank you to all who reviewed, I try to get back to all the reviewers, but this story I think I missed some. My mind is a bit leaky and sometimes I forget if I responded or not to someone. Thank you also to the serial reviewers, you guys make my day!


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